Can't Stop Falling Out
by just drifting
Summary: He comes back to her, but that was to be expected. They aren't finished, the two of them. There is more to their story that has yet been told and neither of them are strong enough to fight it.  DeWitt/Dominic.


He comes back to her, but that was to be expected. They aren't finished, the two of them. There is more to their story that has yet been told and neither of them are strong enough to fight it. His eyes are dark, desolate, and there's a scar across his face that wasn't there before. He just stands there, a tortured soul, and he's retribution and salvation all bundled into one. Outside she can hear gun fire and people's screams—it's dark, like the sun's hiding just the same as everyone else in this messed up world—but in this room there's a deathly silence that flows around them.

(He stands beside her at her window, his hands behind his back in his usual position but he seems more relaxed than usual. Her arms are folded across her chest and she looks out past the bustling city to the horizon. It's a rare, almost vulnerable moment between the two of them and she finds herself speaking almost despite herself. "This is why I moved to LA," she says softly, "I followed the sun.")

There is no sun now, the world is a dark place and it's her, as well as others, who has made it this way. Through her actions, the world began to burn. But she is tired of the endless blame and guilt, not that she doesn't deserve it. She wonders if England fared any better than America. She doubts it. She hasn't heard from her family in so long. She will not let herself hope.

"I figured you'd be out of here by now." His words, laced with only a touch of bitter humour, disturb the silence and add to it at the same time.

She gives a humourless snort, decidedly unladylike—not that it matters now. "No you didn't. You knew I wouldn't"—_couldn't_—"leave."

His face relaxes into a smirk. "Yeah, I guess not. Still...you probably should have."

("Ma'am, do you have an exit strategy? The higher ups will target you if this all goes south."

Her face does not betray her; her surprise safely concealed. His face, however, shows genuine unease over her situation and she is struck by the unexpected desire for him to save her; to rescue her, the damsel in distress, from the wicked castle. But she shakes it off quickly, soon enough that she does not latch onto it. Her reply is sharp and abrupt. She will not let him see how he has affected her.

"Your concern is touching, but my bags are not packed.")

"Perhaps." It's odd. There should not be this ease between them. She has destroyed the world; she has destroyed him. And he has been filled with hate and anger ever since she sent him to that dreaded place—and it is no excuse at all that she did not know what it was, that she did not know what exactly she was subjecting him to. What matters is that she did it anyway and that he suffered anyway, and that that is all there will ever really be between them: suffering and pain and betrayal.

(She had cried, that first day, and for many days after that. It was as if to add insult to injury, that she could not contain her tears. She had always viewed such an act—of crying, of giving in so desperately—an absolute and unforgivable weakness. And yet, she cried anyhow; sobs that wouldn't stop for hours on end. For he was gone, and he had played her so very well: strung her along, made her _believe _in him, wholly and completely.)

"Why are you here?" At her terse words, the atmosphere in the room immediately shifts. Trust her to be the one to do it. Good ol' Adelle DeWitt, always ruining everything. Still, it is a question that needs to be asked. A question _she _needs to ask. Already, she feels too relaxed, too at ease with his presence, and she cannot allow herself to get caught up in lies again.

He moves to pull up a chair and falls tiredly—though he masks it well, she can see the lines on his face—into it with a shrug. "Thought it was time I come visit an old friend."

Her smile is tight. "An old friend..." she murmurs, almost a sigh. Yes, wouldn't that be nice. If there was nothing in their past except friendship—no betrayal, no attic-ing, no holding guns to each other's heads. Just simply friends who somehow lost touch.

"We were that, weren't we?" he asks, and in the dark she can't quite make out the expression on his face. His scar gleams white, another reminder of how much things have changed. "Friends? Before..."

She grimaces. "Yes, before." _Exactly_.

"Things change." Her voice is bitter. She wishes it were not so.

"Adelle..."

"_What_, Mr Dominic?" she asks sharply. She will not give in to this sudden sadness she feels, but she is tired. This game they have been playing with each other has gone on for far too long and she is more than ready to put it to rest. "_Why _are you here?"

He will not look at her and they are silent. She thinks she could drown in silence, sometimes. She is so very alone here; with nothing but an empty house and screaming thoughts that will not abate. She lives her life: half in the present, overwhelmed by the things she has done, and half in the past, remembering the glory that used to be. She has long become accustomed to the sound of her own footsteps walking these once populated halls, but that knowledge will not let her forget that it wasn't always this way; that she wasn't always alone.

(Though she tried hard not to admit it, she had always enjoyed their daily walks through the house. He had adapted his stride to fit hers so very well; always just the slightest bit behind—she was his superior after all—but still close enough that she didn't have to struggle to talk to him. Sometimes she'd feel his breath on the back of her neck or his shoulder would brush hers. It was never awkward or uncomfortable; they knew each other well enough to know it didn't mean anything.)

Or so she'd thought. But of course, that is what has brought them here. The reason why they're sitting in this darkened room. The silence is suffocating: it's too filled with things they haven't said; regrets they won't acknowledge, apologies that are caught in their throats.

"Mr Dominic?" she prompts, for he never did answer her question.

"I wish you'd call me Laurence, Adelle."

_Well, that's new_, she thinks, but she will not be led astray so easily. "I was never quite certain that was your real name."

"It is."

"How was I to know? You lied about so many other things." She thinks perhaps that he has more to be angry about than her; that he has more reason to hate her than she does to hate him. It's no doubt true—the Attic is a fate she could not imagine—but despite these long years she still cannot forget the humiliation, the embarrassment, and the pain that his deception caused her. And so, even though she had wished, just before, for all this to be finished, she supposes she is not quite ready to get over what he did to her.

"It was one thing. I lied about _one _thing, Adelle. The NSA. That was all."

She laughs, mirthless. "And how was I supposed to know that?"

"I _told you_."

("I never lied to you, about my methods or my priorities," and oh, how she'd wanted to believe him. That even though he was a spy, he still cared for her. That _she _was his top priority. But stories like that were the stuff of fairytales, and she was through living a lie.)

He is earnest, beseeching, and she draws back, retreating into herself. He repeats, "I told you," again, softer. "You could have listened to me. We could have worked it out. But the Attic was easier."

She will not meet his eyes, afraid of what she will find. Defeat? Anger? Hurt? Betrayal, even? For though she thinks of it only from her side, of how he betrayed her, she supposes that her complete dismissal of him was a betrayal in and of itself. That she didn't trust him enough, that their three years together didn't mean enough to her to let him explain.

"You don't know anything, _Laurence_." She sneers his name, making a mockery of it. And he still hasn't answered her question. "Now, _why _are you here?

He is out of his seat and suddenly looming over her. His arms fall heavily onto either side of her head. His face is haggard, his eyes wide and untamed. He looks...dangerous. She will not flinch. He stars at her wildly, then pushes off and stumbles away. "_Fuck!_"

He paces up and down the tiny space between the couches. "Why do you always have to make everything so hard?" He turns on her. ". I don't know. Jesus. I don't know why I'm here. Fuck, Adelle, this doesn't make any sense. Why can't I get you out of my head? Why did I feel the need to come back here, when I could easily have just walked away and be done with your shit forever?" He stops pacing and sighs. His gaze is intense, and then it shifts to her lips. "And how can I still want you, after everything you've done?"

He catches her off guard. She had suspected some cold, logical explanation as to why he's standing in front of her. Instead, he's confused and frustrated and torn between what he wants and what he knows he shouldn't.

(There had been times, every so often, when it had become glaringly obvious that they were more than just close colleagues who respected each other. That there was something they were holding back. On nights such as this, when there was no one else around, and they were alone in her office, just them and the moon. She'd find him staring at her, or she'd let her mind wander to what could be and he'd follow her thought. They never let anything happen, though. They were professionals. He'd make a hasty retreat or she'd pick up some boring piece of paperwork. But still that desire remained, always, drifting in the back of their minds.)

"Attraction is a strange thing, Laurence." Now that he's assured her it's true, she can't help repeating his name. She likes the sound of it on her lips; soft and elegant and strong.

He takes a step towards her. "But it's not just that. It's not _just_ because you're fucking gorgeous."

She smiles at the unintentional compliment. "No, I suppose not." She thinks she has spent too long letting him rule this meeting, and he has not done such a good job of it. It is time for her to take control again, just like, she supposes, it's always been. So she stands and walks over to him, long strides, with her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She's not sure why she continues to wear the same clothing she did back then; something about keeping up appearances, about not acknowledging what has happened.

She saunters up and wraps her arms around his neck. His eyes fall closed with a barely audible groan. "Why can't I get you out of my head?" he asks again.

"Because you want me there."

She kisses him, strong and sure.

"And I'm starting to think I want to be there too."

It's not at all what she'd thought when he'd returned to her, and it's not in any way perfect, but somehow, this strange feeling, this possible relationship during the downfall of the world...it fits them. Like this is how it was always supposed to end.


End file.
